


I Think There's A Flaw In My Code

by tiptopevak



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Description of panic attack situation, M/M, Mental Illness, Psychosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 12:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9819656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptopevak/pseuds/tiptopevak
Summary: There’s shadows on the wall, and they look like the creatures in Even's head.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i write to deal with my own experience of mental illness and!!! this happened!!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: mental illness!!!!! description of panic attack situation, and possibly psychosis? also mention of delusions.
> 
> keep yourself safe, always always <3
> 
> also found here: tiptopevak.tumblr.com/post/157421318571/i-think-theres-a-flaw-in-my-code

Today, it’s Tuesday, and his mind is **loud**.

He hasn’t slept yet, because it’s choking. It is stifling - the _fear_. The panic. Bubbling thick and clinging in the marrow of his bones, like an infection. 

He’s pressed flat to the bed with the weight of it aching on his ribs.

Behind closed eyes, he sees filthy, beaten, begging things. They’re tall. Long. Black, like spilled ink. They wring rags of his memories in their bony hands - his mother, his isak, his _everything._ Dipping them into the dirty water of delusions, and he’s powerless to stop it, powerless to break the shredded ribbons of breath coming between his teeth.

It’s loud.

Isak is beside him, stirring. Shifting under the blankets. The scratch of fabric scrawls white-hot like nails down even’s spine.

“Hey,” he whispers, blinks his tired eyes open. He props himself up on an elbow the second he notices that even is frozen-ice stiff in the bed next to him. “Even? What’s- … What’s going on?”

Twitch of his jaw, clench of his teeth. There’s shadows on the wall, and they look like the creatures in his head. Could be their faces, their teeth, their claws. Coming for him.

It’s loud. Isak doesn’t know. Doesn’t know how _loud_.

Hands over his ears, fingers grasping at his hair. “Stop,” he says, and it’s so soft, the world barely catches it in its palms. Cradles it, like it doesn’t know what to do with it. Neither does even. “Stop it. Stop,” and he shakes his head, tugs at his roots. “S _top it_.”

The bed is too hot. The blankets too cloying. The air too gluey. When he slides down off the mattress, the cool floor hisses at his skin. He sits with his back pressed to the bed, and Isak goes with him, sits cross-legged on the floor with Even at four in the morning on a Tuesday.

It’s loud.  

“You’re safe. We’re safe,” Isak says.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. 

But he brings the softest touches Even has ever felt, while four-in-the-morning cold coaxes their toes blue, and Even glances over at him, and he thinks, with his hands still over his ears: _but it’s almost like you do._


End file.
